


Close to the Chest

by CherryMilkshake



Series: I did not realize that you were a woman. - That is because I am not. [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (mentioned) - Freeform, Backstory, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Original Character(s), Other, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 13:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6081912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryMilkshake/pseuds/CherryMilkshake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has secrets, but in a relationship, they tend to come out. Bull doesn't quite know what to do with Cadash's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close to the Chest

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags. Cadash has some scars.

There were many things Iron Bull played close to his chest—memories of Par Vollen, his life on Seheron. He spoke of them obliquely, if at all, cloaking them in careful nonchalance and distracting too-personal anecdotes. It worked. 

Cadash, too, had things in the closet. Bull wasn't surprised—from what he'd heard of the Carta, they weren't a bunch to cross. There were bits though. Cadash had two younger brothers, a "tough old broad" of a mother, and a deep curiosity about the Cadash clan's Orzammar roots. 

And as simple play became something… else that Bull didn't know how to name, he learned Andrin was not the man they played at being for others, nor a woman completely. Bull didn't have a name for that either, but he was happy to consider Andrin nothing more or less than themself. 

Andrin learned more about Bull. Andrin learned about Vasaad, a name and tale Bull had not allowed cross his lips since looked into the piercing eyes of a reeducator who had asked _why?_ Andrin learned Bull's deepest fears and desires, and met them in turn, smiling at the splattering of pale pink burns left from wax, the red and white whorls from rope around their wrists, and the purple bruises left from Bull's mouth. 

Bull learned things about Andrin too. He learned they had no father worth speaking of. He learned they had joined the Carta at 17 because their mother had owed a debt. But they never spoke of why. 

It was beginning to feel unbalanced. Bull could read much from their expressions and body, but bodies were not good with fine detail. One night, after elfroot balm had been rubbed over tender flesh and lips had grown worn with kissing, he interrupted his combing of Andrin's hair to ask, "Are you ever going to tell me about your family, Kadan?"

Andrin, who had been happily laying in Bull's lap, opened their eyes, unable to hide the stiffening of their shoulders. "What do you want to know, Bull?"

"Did you know your father at all? You never speak of him, so he's dead, otherwise gone, or you never knew him."

"He's dead," Andrin said simply, closing their eyes again, relaxing. 

"What did he do?" Bull asked. 

Andrin's lips thinned as they frowned. "He was a blacksmith I think? It's been a long time." They were lying. 

"Andrin," Bull said. "I don't appreciate being lied to by someone I trust."

They met his gaze, then turned their eyes away with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Bull. You're right." They sat up, scooting to the edge of the bed to dangle their legs off the edge. They took the comb off the coverlet and pulled their long hair over their shoulder, running the comb through it slowly, mechanically—soothingly. Bull kissed the mark he'd left on the juncture of neck and shoulder, and waited.

It took Andrin a minute to organize their thoughts. "My birth father was a blacksmith. He was an asshole. The things he did to my mother…" Bull could see their face in profile, could see the way their throat bobbed as they swallowed. "I was 12 when I learned what he did. I convinced him it'd be easier to take it out on me. I was younger. I healed faster. I could take more." The strokes of the comb became longer, faster, static crackling in their hair. 

Bull regretted asking, but they were going on, lancing the wound.

"So I became his punching bag instead. He liked beating. I picked fights with the neighboring children to convince my mother it was them leaving the bruises. My mother was so _relieved_." Andrin's throat bobbed. "She thought he'd had a change of heart. That he loved her better now. And he was happy to reap the benefits of that." 

"Kadan," Bull whispered, a sick feeling coiling in his gut. He looked at the yellowing bruises on Andrin's arms, left by his own fingers, the marks from his own teeth. He was suddenly afraid to touch. 

"She found out when she found him looming over me with a long switch, and she saw the welts on my back." 

For Andrin, tools were a hard no. No crops, no whips. Bull clenched his jaw.

"She went to the Carta and had him killed. I was 14. But they needed smugglers and my mother couldn't do that. I promised I'd give them what they needed, if we could just have time. My mother remarried and had my brothers. He's a decent sort. Boring." They snorted. "Good for them all though. My brothers don't know anything about my birth father. And they never will, if I have any say in it."

They stopped their hands, little orange wispy hairs rising from their head with the electricity. "Any other questions, Bull?"

He had many questions, none of which he knew how to ask. But Andrin was vulnerable, looking at him with wary eyes, afraid they'd scared him away. So he gathered them up in his arms, pulling them back against his chest. "Kadan," he said quietly. "I didn't… What we do…" He hated the way the words wouldn't cooperate, Qunlat and Common mixing in a frantic mush in his head, neither language giving him words to use. 

"Bull," they said firmly, putting their hands over his. "Bull, what we do together is nothing like what he did. With you, I know I can end it with a word." They brought Bull's palm up to their lips, kissing the center. "You've never done anything I haven't wanted, Bull. Never."

Bull thought of formative influences, of learning to associate pain with love, of trauma, of what kind of mother wouldn't notice all that going on for _years_. But all he did was hold Andrin closer, pressing his lips to the crown of their head. "You must promise to always tell me to stop," he said softly.

Andrin tilted their head back and kissed his chin. "I promise."

And that would have to be enough. 


End file.
